The bathroom fan hums overhead, a low mechanical whir masking the quiet sobs I try to hold back. I’ve buried my phone under a hand towel to muffle the messages I can’t bring myself to answer — invitations, updates, another engagement, another baby, another answered prayer. Not mine.
I stare at my palms cupped before me. They feel dry, empty. I don’t know what I’m asking for anymore. I've made dua every night. Fajr to Isha, I’ve whispered hopes in sujood. I’ve asked with shaking hands, with tears, with ayahs pressed into my chest like bandages.
But all I feel is left behind.
I know Allah promises love to those who purify themselves—the believers, the patient, the grateful. I try to believe, truly. But patience isn’t glamorous. It's quiet and lonely and often looks like being forgotten.
This morning I paused halfway through folding laundry, hands buried in baby clothes that weren't mine, for a baby that isn’t here yet. I looked up, the window caught sunshine off a neighbor’s car. I watched two birds landing on the edge of the pavement, their heads cocked, blinking at crumbs someone had tossed.
It struck me how naturally Allah provides. Even those two little birds, they looked like nothing important. Yet they found what they needed — and not because they hunted it, but because it was quietly placed in their path.
For months now, I’ve battered at the doors of dua, feeling like they hadn’t even rattled. But maybe there’s a difference between silence and absence.
I stayed up last night reading a journal I’d kept years ago. The pages were thin with wear, ink smudged from old tears. I found entries full of things I begged Allah for then — some I had forgotten I ever wanted. And so many had, in fact, come to pass.
Not always how I envisioned. Not with the glitter of cinematic endings. Some arrived gently, after I had finally let go.
Like Layla.
A friend I met two years ago during a teary Ramadan. She had handed me a tissue during taraweeh without a word. Now she texts me recitations when I say I can’t sleep. Has stood outside my house with hot chai on nights when all I could do was cry from an ache I couldn’t name.
That’s love too, isn't it?
Not the kind wrapped in romantic fulfillment or the ticking boxes of life milestones — but the love that shows up anyway. The quiet kind. The sacred silence between prayers.
Today, I felt the faintest shift in my chest. Not a full lightness, but a soft, opening space.
I whispered a dua — a simple one, with no deadlines:
“Ya Allah, even if I never see it, let me feel Your love.”
Then I folded another set of someone else’s baby clothes, and didn’t cry this time.
Because maybe the wait isn’t an empty hallway, but its own classroom.
Maybe feeling left behind is really an invitation — to learn how to stay.
To sit quietly with trust. To let surrender bloom exactly where longing once lived.
And maybe that’s where Allah’s love lives, too — not just in the arrivals, but in the aching. In the unseen. In the fact that I am still here, praying.
Still pulling softness from the silence.
Still believing, even when it breaks me open.
Especially then.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
"Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves."
— Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222
"And when My servants ask you concerning Me—indeed, I am near. I respond to the invocation of the supplicant when he calls upon Me…"
— Surah Al-Baqarah 2:186
"And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied."
— Surah Ad-Duha 93:5
"So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth."
— Surah Ar-Rum 30:60
The Prophet ﷺ said, "Know that victory comes with patience, relief with affliction, and ease with hardship."
— Hadith (Tirmidhi)
The bathroom fan hums overhead, a low mechanical whir masking the quiet sobs I try to hold back. I’ve buried my phone under a hand towel to muffle the messages I can’t bring myself to answer — invitations, updates, another engagement, another baby, another answered prayer. Not mine.
I stare at my palms cupped before me. They feel dry, empty. I don’t know what I’m asking for anymore. I've made dua every night. Fajr to Isha, I’ve whispered hopes in sujood. I’ve asked with shaking hands, with tears, with ayahs pressed into my chest like bandages.
But all I feel is left behind.
I know Allah promises love to those who purify themselves—the believers, the patient, the grateful. I try to believe, truly. But patience isn’t glamorous. It's quiet and lonely and often looks like being forgotten.
This morning I paused halfway through folding laundry, hands buried in baby clothes that weren't mine, for a baby that isn’t here yet. I looked up, the window caught sunshine off a neighbor’s car. I watched two birds landing on the edge of the pavement, their heads cocked, blinking at crumbs someone had tossed.
It struck me how naturally Allah provides. Even those two little birds, they looked like nothing important. Yet they found what they needed — and not because they hunted it, but because it was quietly placed in their path.
For months now, I’ve battered at the doors of dua, feeling like they hadn’t even rattled. But maybe there’s a difference between silence and absence.
I stayed up last night reading a journal I’d kept years ago. The pages were thin with wear, ink smudged from old tears. I found entries full of things I begged Allah for then — some I had forgotten I ever wanted. And so many had, in fact, come to pass.
Not always how I envisioned. Not with the glitter of cinematic endings. Some arrived gently, after I had finally let go.
Like Layla.
A friend I met two years ago during a teary Ramadan. She had handed me a tissue during taraweeh without a word. Now she texts me recitations when I say I can’t sleep. Has stood outside my house with hot chai on nights when all I could do was cry from an ache I couldn’t name.
That’s love too, isn't it?
Not the kind wrapped in romantic fulfillment or the ticking boxes of life milestones — but the love that shows up anyway. The quiet kind. The sacred silence between prayers.
Today, I felt the faintest shift in my chest. Not a full lightness, but a soft, opening space.
I whispered a dua — a simple one, with no deadlines:
“Ya Allah, even if I never see it, let me feel Your love.”
Then I folded another set of someone else’s baby clothes, and didn’t cry this time.
Because maybe the wait isn’t an empty hallway, but its own classroom.
Maybe feeling left behind is really an invitation — to learn how to stay.
To sit quietly with trust. To let surrender bloom exactly where longing once lived.
And maybe that’s where Allah’s love lives, too — not just in the arrivals, but in the aching. In the unseen. In the fact that I am still here, praying.
Still pulling softness from the silence.
Still believing, even when it breaks me open.
Especially then.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
"Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves."
— Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222
"And when My servants ask you concerning Me—indeed, I am near. I respond to the invocation of the supplicant when he calls upon Me…"
— Surah Al-Baqarah 2:186
"And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied."
— Surah Ad-Duha 93:5
"So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth."
— Surah Ar-Rum 30:60
The Prophet ﷺ said, "Know that victory comes with patience, relief with affliction, and ease with hardship."
— Hadith (Tirmidhi)
